Work Text:
a cry at the final breath
~Shrike, Hozier
"Run!"
Arthur’s heart raced in his ears, leaping and bounding as though it knew it were using its final beats.
“I’ll catch up!”
He’d made them ride ahead so they could live - Lenny had been hurt, had needed Hosea and Miss Grimshaw and Swanson but they’d never go back to camp with the law on their tails - but still there was a part of him that wanted his family, that was desperate to see them come riding over the hill and send the crowd scattering, shoot the rope before it could strangle him or break his neck, but if they did then his sacrifice would all be for nothing and he’d be furious.
“Arthur!”
“Go! I’ll be fine!”
John had been frantic, only Charles grabbing Old Boy’s reins keeping him from taking chase and dragging him along to protect Lenny as they fled for camp.
Arthur had spun around, bolted for the forest while taking shots at the lawmen - if he rode right for them his ploy would be too obvious, but he’d successfully managed to catch their attention and soon had the whole lot of them after him.
One, two, three, four had dropped, one dragged by his horse as his boot caught in its stirrup, another turning a comical flip as he slammed head first into a tree, having stretched up to take aim.
But he hadn’t had long to laugh, he’d taken a corner and found himself with a lasso cinching tight around his neck, yanking him off his stallion and dragging him a good few feet before the lawman reined his horse in and he could finally breathe.
And then there’d been a burst of pain - one of the lawmen had come up behind him, slamming the butt of his gun into the back of his head - and the next thing he knew he was being shoved up onto the gallows, hands bound behind him.
He was terrified. He didn’t want to die - would gladly die for his family but now he was staring into his death and oh god I don’t want to die but he was no magician, he was no Trelawney, couldn’t magic himself out of the ropes, didn’t have a gun or a knife, had been stripped down while he was slumped over the back of the lawman’s mare and left defenseless and oh god I’m about to die.
The sheriff was giving that speech he’d heard a thousand times, and was nearing its end. “He shows no remorse… neither shall we.”
and couldn’t they come up with something else? Change it up just a bit? It was exactly the same as when he’d attended the hangings of the bounties he’d brought in, they were killing him so didn’t they at least owe him that?
No.
No they didn’t.
They owed him nothing, he’d killed four of their friends, five if you counted the one that had broken his own fool neck, brothers if they viewed themselves in such a way. This was a matter of revenge (“revenge is a fool’s game”), of getting a threat off the streets (“we’ve turned into a bunch of killers, I mean it”).
“The time has come for your judgement.”
His eyes snapped up to the hill, darted over to the other roads (“I know if the situation were reversed… he’d look for me”) but god he’d have wrung their necks if they’d risked it, risked riding into this lawman filled courtyard on the off chance of saving him before he swung.
“No need to wait.”
Horse hooves beat loudly on the ground.
“Release the floor.”
“Arthur!”